


Payment in Blood

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, happy/hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24141541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Jaskier is accidently hurt during one of Geralt's... altercations with some less than pleasant people.The situation forces Geralt to have to deal both with his own emotions and taking care of an injured Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 243





	Payment in Blood

He had fucked up.

This was his fault. Gods. He had fucked up and it would not be him who paid for it.

No, he would pay, he would pay dearly for it, just not with his own blood.

Jaskier was hurt. Jaskier was dying. And it was his fault. He hadn’t been watching, hadn’t seen, hadn’t thought to look.

It wasn’t his fault. Jaskier is his own man, he makes his own choices. He’s more than capable of defending himself, the number of bar fights Geralt had witnessed over the year’s testament enough to that.

But then who can be blamed for not being prepared to defend one’s self against a friend’s blade?

This was his fault. He hadn’t meant to. He truly hadn’t- he didn’t realise the bard was there, so close. Trying to help, the stupid fool. What could he have done, bludgeoned the guards to death with his damned lute? Probably, if he had gotten the chance, if Geralt hadn’t…

He didn’t know he was there, how was he supposed to? Supposed to track the bard and keep them alive all at once. He counted on Jaskier to stay back, out of the way, out of _trouble_. Staying on the edges, only battering those who strayed too far from the main event to become a concern to him. Normally the bard had at least enough self-preservation for that.

Maybe this time he had been trying to, trying to push his way out of the worst of it when Geralt had… stopped him. 

He had seen him the moment it happened, yellow eyes locking with familiar blue. His grasp faltered, sword already moving down, momentum not giving him the space to stop it, managing little more than to jerk it aside. Redirect from its original trajectory.

That, at least he succeeded at. Veering down, missing the bard’s delicate neck to slice open Jaskier’s chest, ripping through doublet, undershirt, and flesh alike.

The scream cut into him in turn. Piercing his heart, he stumbled back, watching Jaskier fall. Watching the blood begin to seep out of him. Taking solace in the fact the bard still had strength enough to move, to half drag, half crawl his way free of the chaos around them.

Geralt did not get to see where he finally collapsed, distracted by his remaining attackers. Only hoping wherever Jaskier settled was far enough to be free of trampling feet and falling weapons.

He cut through the rest of the men in a blind rage, taking out the burning anger he felt at himself on them instead. Gaze hazy with blood he sliced through them mercilessly, caring only for speed and nothing else.

After the last one falls, he does not bother to check that they are truly dead, does not care to know. He only has one point of focus now.

Jaskier. He spots him easily enough, curled against the cold stone wall. Eyes fallen shut, brow soaked with sweat. Geralt allows himself a sigh of relief upon seeing that Jaskier’s chest is still moving, in quick shallow grasping breaths.

He tries not to let himself think about what that could mean. Tries not to think about the worst possible outcomes. About the cost of battle. He is accustomed to paying in blood, though usually it is his own.

He focuses on the breath, raspy and weak but present, focuses on how it tugs on the bard’s chest, continuing to move it up and down with each pull.

He rips a length of the doublet off, ignoring Jaskier’s voice in his head, scolding him, arguing that it didn’t matter it was practically sliced in two, it could have been repaired, dammed brute, ruining perfectly good clothes.

He ignores the thoughts that come in his own voice, wishing Jaskier was awake and coherent enough to voice such complaints on his own. He resolves to let the bard yell at him over it all later when he recovers.

He will recover. He _must_ recover. Geralt cannot afford to think on the alterative.

Geralt presses the cloth against the wound, pressing it down as hard as he dares. He startles slightly, when Jaskier gasps, glassy eyes falling open, tired and heavy hands weakly batting at him, not truly seeing Geralt’s presence.

Geralt ignores them, shrugging them off with ease. He rips off more shreds of Jaskier’s clothing, using these to secure the others in place. Tying them as tight as he can manage, pulling until he swears he can almost hear Jaskier’s ribs creaking in protest.

He ignores the way Jaskier has fallen still, head lolling uselessly against the wall beside him. He ignores the clouded glassy eyes, staring out but seeing nothing. He tells himself it will be fine, everything will be fine.

If it is not fine then that is entirely his own fault.

He makes an attempt at rousing him, lightly slapping the bard’s face, calling his name. He gets no more than incoherent mumblings and groans in response. Though the hands at least seem to move with some more level of confidence, now actually managing to find purchase against him.

Knots secured he scoops up the bard, cradling the smaller man, carrying him akin to bridal style against his body. It’s an awkward position, to be sure, but he will not take the risk throwing the bard over his shoulder, potentially damaging the man’s chest any further.

He hurries out through the building, sending out a silent thanks to whomever may be listening that they encounter no further trouble along the way. He has neither the time nor patience to deal with more guards right now. If the bastard wants to cheat him out of his money then so be it, he will return at another time to get what he is owed. And possibly more if the small shuttering body in his arms stops drawing in breath.

Make the lord who thinks himself above paying a Witcher pay with his own blood.

He hopes it will not come to that.

He tries to ignore the blood, already seeping through his makeshift bandages, and dripping slowly onto his arm. Ignoring the way his arms now feel warm and slick in a way they had not before. Equally he ignores the sound of it on occasion falling off him, splattering against the unforgiving ground.

It will not do to think of such things now.

Instead he focuses on moving, one foot after another, careful, have to be careful. Any stumble or slip could cost the bard his life. He could not let that happen.

So he focuses on the rhythmic slap of his footfall, focuses on the clear path before him, willing any beings before him to be wise enough to get out of his way.

He finds Roach exactly where he left her, still stood patiently outside. Where he should have left the bard- No, no time for such thoughts now. Focus. Keep moving. He can do that, he’s good at moving. Moving and hitting and not thinking. Gods he wishes he were truly better at not thinking.

He pauses only long enough to wrap some real bandages around his makeshift ones, hoping these will do a better job at keeping the bards blood contained, then he is all but tossing Jaskier onto Roach’s back, finding slight solace in the way the man seems to almost have mind enough to keep himself right. Good. He would rather the man be awake enough to ride upright, if he has to tie him down that would likely only worse the bard’s wounds, likely speeding up the rate of blood loss.

He scrambles up behind Jaskier, pressing Jaskier against his chest, gently directing the man’s numb fingers to cling to the front of the saddle before he urges Roach forward.

He spurs Roach on as fast as he dares, aware both of the strain their combined weights would be putting on her, and the risk of Jaskier slipping off through his arms and hitting the ground. He rushes them out the gates of the manor, at least the heart of the town is not far, the healer only a little way beyond that.

He tries not to notice the way Jaskier seems to rest, completely weak against him, head bouncing along with every step. He urges Roach on, into a canter, hoping the smoother step will prove easier for Jaskier.

He ignores the ever-present smell of fresh blood. Ignores how shallow his breath has become. Ignores the fact there is nothing he can do but urge the already hurrying horse on faster. 

He all but falls off Roach’s back on arrival, in his desperate desire to dismount. He pulls Jaskier down with him, grateful that he manages not to stumble. He practically tucks Jaskier under his arm, keeping him upright and dragging him along with Geralt.

Jaskier is muttering something, low beneath his breath, Geralt does not take the time to discover what, focused on bundling the bleeding man to the door of the small hut before them.

He had been there earlier this week, for supplies. He had had no idea he would find himself back so soon.

Close fist he pounds on the door, ready to break it down if no one answers.

He hears movement from within, picking it out over the sound of his own heartbeat, rushing within his own ears.

The creaking door swings open, its owner’s irritation quickly turning to understanding as Geralt shoves past her, lowering Jaskier as gently as he can manage onto one of the old wooden tables within the room.

She clicks her tongue at him, instead motioning for him to follow her behind a curtain, revealing instead a bed for Jaskier to be lain on.

The healer quickly pushes Geralt aside once the bard is settled, pushing him out the curtained room as she sets to work.

He finds himself in the front of the shop, then before long standing outside, hands suddenly empty, chest heaving, unsure what to do.

He busies himself, needing something, anything to distract his mind from what’s happening behind him.

He does not want to go to far, but he also can’t allow himself to ignore the other being under his charge. He walks Roach to the inn’s stable, having already rented a spot for the night. He doesn’t think about the room also booked upstairs. He sees that Roach is fed, bushed, hooves cleaned, cared for. It’s the least he can do, make sure she at least is looked after.

It’s a strange process, his mind fighting against each other the entire way, in part wanting to rush, speed through his tasks and get back to Jaskier’s side, part wanting to take his time, indulge in the distraction. Let horsehair fill his mind in place of the image of Jaskier slowly bleeding out.

Before long however he can find no more excuses to linger. He finds himself back outside the Healers hut, hovering, wishing there was something, anything that he could do to fix this. By now its early evening, he lets himself watch the sunset, tries to force his mind to remain blank, to focus on little more than the gradual change in light.

But soon enough, standing there, he no longer has reason to allow his thoughts to wander. They focus in, on his sword slicing through Jaskier’s flesh, on the bard’s face as he fell. On the scream.

He believes that scream may come to haunt him for the rest of his life.

It feels like he stands there, blankly, trapped in regret and useless indecision, for days before the healer reappears in the doorway, beckoning him in. He knows it can’t have been, the sun not even beginning to rise yet.

He follows her in, not thinking about the growing dread settling in his gut.

Jaskier is alive. The fact hits him like a ton of bricks, smashing into his chest and knocking the breath out of him. Ironic, as all he can focus on right now is Jaskier’s breath, the rise and fall of his chest, so blessedly deep and even. The wound stitched up, finally clean of blood.

“He will live.”

Geralt almost jumps, having all but forgotten the woman stood beside him.

“He will need rest, a lot of it, the wound will need to be bandaged, and the bandage changed daily, and it will most definitely scar”

Geralt feels a sharp stab of guilt at that. It feels obvious, a wound such as this would of course leave a scar, a permanent reminder of Geralt’s mistake. The bard would never be free of what he had done, no matter what happens now.

“My services” the healer continued with a pointed look “do not come for free.”

Geralt blindly tosses some coins at her, not caring for any more fights that evening.

She seems satisfied, pressing a small pot into his hand, “for the wound, it will help it heal, and this one,” she says, passing over a vial, “will help with the pain.”

He takes them, tucking them away, before gently lifting the bard, moving Jaskier as carefully as he can manage.

The innkeeper is not thrilled when Geralt blunders in, long past closing, having broken the lock when no one came to open the door. He is even less thrilled when Geralt informs him they will be staying another night at least, his disagreement managing to develop even further when he hears the rumour the Lord’s men may be after the Witcher. But enough coin eventually wins him over, agreeing to leave them be.

Geralt wastes little time in getting Jaskier to their room, placing him in bed. Hating how pale his skin remains, doing his best to focus in turn on the steady beat of Jaskier’s chest. He smooths the blanket over him, letting him rest. Geralt choosing instead to settle into the small chair in the side of the room, hoping to get some sleep himself.

He awakens late the next day, the sun already high in the sky, Jaskier still lying still in bed, only the continued raise and fall of his chest confirming the fact he was still alive.

Geralt approaches him slowly, soaking in the site, now that’s he is close he can see that is not all of Jaskier that moves, his eyelids fluttering ever so lightly, fingers twitching against the blanket. None of the movements admittedly as obvious as the bard’s chest.

Something about it is memorising, Geralt can’t resist placing an ear against his chest, letting his eyes fall closed and focusing on hearing the heart beating, working away inside, proof Jaskier is still alive.

When he straightens up Jaskier’s eyes are open, no longer clouded or glassy, but clear, staring back at him. Geralt feels his breath catch in his throat, instantly moving to pull back, pull away.

Jaskier reaches out before he can, grasping his hand, pulling him back. Geralt let’s himself follow the movement, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, still holding on to Jaskier’s hand.

Jaskier smiles at him, although Geralt doesn’t miss the slight wince when the movement inadvertently tugs at the wound in his chest.

They sit for a moment in silence, Geralt still listening to Jaskier’s heart, beating away in his bruised and broken chest.

When Jaskier finally speaks it could not be further from what he had expected, “I forgive you.”

Geralt cuts off a choked and angry laugh, “You could have died-“

“I didn’t.” Jaskier takes up Geralt’s hand, pressing it against his chest, against the wound Geralt had given him, the permanent scaring mark- “I’m not dead, it’s still beating. Because of you, because of all the times you’ve saved me that it can keep beating.”

“It’s because of me it almost stopped Jask.”

Jaskier smiles gently, “I forgive you.”

“Don’t-“

“I _forgive_ you.”

Geralt chokes back a sob, dragging his free hand down his face, “you shouldn’t.”

Jaskier eyes narrow ever so slightly in response, “That is for me to decide, and I chose to forgive you.”

“You should not just excuse my actions-”

“I’m not excusing them.” Jaskier lifts Geralt’s hand from his chest, moving it instead to rest on Jaskier’s cheek, “I’m not denying what happened. I’m choosing to forgive it, to forgive you.”

“With time you may come to regret that forgiveness.”

Jaskier hums, gently nuzzling against Geralt’s hand. “I may, with time, though I do not currently believe I will.”

Geralt looks away, unsure of how to respond. It can’t just be this easy, he knows it can’t, he knows it isn’t. That even with the bard’s forgiveness both of them will still suffer from his actions. Jaskier would carry a mark of Geralt’s regret with him until his dying day.

“Perhaps you can forgive me-”

“I have.”

“-but I cannot be as quick to forgive my own actions.” He looks back at the bard, sees that now it is Jaskier who is avoiding his gaze, staring down at his bandaged chest.

“Then I will just have to stay with you until you do.”

“Jask-”

“-and show you how to forgive.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“I will Geralt, and that is a direct threat.”

Geralt chuckles lightly, knowing there is nothing he could say to sway the bard at this time. His only option is defeat, though he will not accept it with any level of comfort.

Jaskier cocks his head, watching the Witcher, “lay with me,” he demands.

“Jaskier-”

“Lay with me, grant me this wish at least, and we can work towards my others.”

Geralt allows himself a small, sad smile. He moves slowly, overly aware of Jaskier’s injured form, as he moved to settle beside the bard. He winds up practically wrapping around the smaller man.

Jaskier wraps an arm around Geralt, guiding him to lay his head once more on the bard’s chest, Geralt not missing Jaskier’s pained gasp when he goes to do so.

Yet Jaskier’s grip simply tightening when he tries to pull away, “no no, stay, just… be gentle.”

Geralt grunts affirmative, he will not fight with the bard any more today, being as careful as possible as he lies back down, letting himself settle against him, listening to the bard’s beating heart.

It was his fault, and he cannot find it in him to forgive himself yet. He is not sure he will ever find it within himself to do so.

But for now, he does not think of that, for now he just lets himself lie there, listening to Jaskier’s breath, as it slowly changes, growing slow and steady as the bard gradually drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> oh gross emotions, disgusting.  
> 


End file.
